hawkes and hounds
by twigcollins
Summary: various short stories during the events of the game - rogue F!Hawke, eventual Hawke/Fenris/Isabela.
1. lowtown nights

The only thing that can be said for Uncle Gamlen's hovel in Lowtown is that they're not all dead in Lothering. On the nights when the roof leaks or the rats are brave enough to ignore the warhound in their midst, even that seems a cold comfort. Still, the more Hawke learns of Varric, the more it seems the dwarf may actually be worth all his smooth talk, and this expedition into the Deep Roads could pay out everything they require. Mother's pleas to the Viscount have so far gone unanswered - but what in this world does not work more smoothly with the coin to move things along? Hawke has not forgotten her promise to the Witch of the Wilds, she has less than no interest in seeing the punishment for defaulting on a dragon. Indeed, it seems a Dalish encampment has appeared near the mountain, and hopefully there the Keeper she is to meet. Hawke can't help but be grateful for it - if nervous, running a thumb along her cheek, the markings there. Nothing she will ever be ashamed of, or regret, no matter how much scorn she endures from humans or the elves, or how much right they have to do so - oh, but the Dalish will hate her for it. They certainly did before.

"I miss father."

Hawke hadn't meant to say it aloud, but it slips out anyway. Bethany turns in the bed below hers - or what they call a bed, for lack of a more insulting term. Mother is burning the midnight oil in the other room, looking up more laws that might help her claim, ignoring their uncle's endless grousing. At this point it is likely useless to keep searching, but Hawke knows what means for her, to do anything that feels like moving forward.

"You're doing fine. We're doing fine."

"He never would have let mother spend a year here. He would have never locked himself into servitude like it was nothing, let alone drag you into it."

It's the city, mostly, that's got Hawke chafing at the bit. Lothering was not nearly so big, certainly not as tightly packed. Whatever comes of their visit to the Sundermount, getting out into the wilderness will be nothing but a relief. She needs desperately to be in a place without walls, to stretch her legs and let the mabari run until he's had his fill. Mother wants the house in Hightown, and Bethany deserves it, and so she will get it for them, but Hawke only ever feels the pull of the wide open spaces, and she's determined to make sure they spend at least one night out beneath the stars.

"We did what we had to do - and you know father would have too. Now, it's all in the past, and we're that much closer to our future."

Bethany has found a friend in Varric, and listening to them talk puts a part of Hawke at ease, the dwarf always with a way to keep her sister in a cheerful mood. Losing Carver - it still stings. Hawke had failed to do her duty to the family, and she knows it, and misses him, but Bethany felt the loss of her twin in a different, sharper way. They were always close, and as the elder sister Hawke can do her best to make up the difference, to do what she can, but it is simply not the same.

"That's not what all this is about, anyway." Bethany says, and by the way the boards creak she can tell her sister has tipped her head over the side, trying to look up at her. "I saw the way you looked at him."

Fenris. Maker save her from herself. Hawke presses the heels of her hands against her eyes, no use trying to ignore the surge of interest, of excitement, just to think of him again. He is a stranger, and a rather violent, mercurial one at that, and yet Hawke has not been so happy… it has been a long, long time. What she feels already, and how far it goes? A childish, nonsense fantasy. The realm of ladies who faint on cue, or insipid balladeers grasping for an extra coin. No one in the real world is supposed to be so stupid, so fast.

As if that changes the truth of it. As if her heart has ever, _ever_ done anything with her permission.

"I am such a warhound."

Bethany lowers her voice, mimicking the elf's deeper tone. "'I imagine I must look strange to you.' Idiot. How about, 'I imagine you're undressing me with your eyes right now. Enjoy the view.'"

"You're horrible."

"Fenris. Really. Of all the names in all the world for a dog lord like you. Maker's breath, you know you're going to end up calling him puppy and he's going to kill you and you're going to deserve it."

The last thing in the world Hawke ever needs to do is compare him to a warhound. No one in all Thedas less likely to take it as a compliment.

"If I had a choice between the King of Ferelden or my dog," she replies, "we both know I'd take the mabari. And I hear the King's a good man."

A pause. Hawke is not prepared for the soft half-whisper when it comes.

"It always has to be elves with you, doesn't it?"

A damn shame Bethany is her sister, there is no one who knows her better and therefore no one less that she'd like to have this conversation with.

"I thought we agreed to leave that in Ferelden."

"Did we, now?" Bethany sighs, and takes another shot at Fenris' scornful tone. "'You harbor a viper in your midst.' Insufferable ass."

"Oh, certainly."

And beautiful beyond reckoning, and he would likely kill her for thinking so, with how little of it seems to be of his own design. A rebel, a fugitive from Tevinter, a place so unlike Ferelden Hawke cannot begin to imagine it. Fenris would not - will not appreciate her interest. All that she finds so fascinating is everything that he is running from. None of this is going to go well.

"He's dangerous." Her sister says. "Not that it ever stops you _ever_, but I would at least like you to admit it."

"Do you remember that mabari, back when we were younger? The one we found in those caves?"

Bethany sighs, the 'my-sister-is-crazy-Andraste-give-me-strength' sound she's borrowed from their mother. Hawke's father had preferred to shake his head, though his eyes were always proud, shining with a hidden smile. He knew better than anyone, the weight of the world - survival was one thing, to thrive, to _live_ meant having to be far more than simply sane.

"You mean the slavering monster that nearly tore your hand off?"

"She was scared. The bastards who'd abused her - she knew nothing but pain and cruelty, and had no reason to think well of anyone."

Hawke had been patient, and careful, and after months of effort had finally gotten in the warhound's good graces. It had died, a few years later, saving her from a giant spider that had wandered far out of the wilds, but not before it had birthed the litter her own pup came from. At the first, it had growled whenever she'd dared come into view, baring fangs, the full threatening display. By the end, she'd licked Hawke's hand, head resting in her lap, and Hawke had whispered her thanks, and so many apologies until the poison had taken her.

"That elf is not a mabari."

"No," she agrees, "he's far prettier than that."

"You are tragic." More creaking, what is likely her sister shaking her head. "You are a tragedy."

Fenris' eyes are cool as river stones. Ardent, and wary and incredibly alive. So many in Lowtown shamble about like living corpses, practically Tranquil, dull-eyed and broken and so disinterested in living Hawke doesn't know why they bother working as hard as they do to make it to the next day. Why they don't simply lay down and die, when it seems they're halfway there already. The bastards in Hightown aren't much better - better-fed, but equally useless, so many of them doing little more than taking up space. Just ask Aveline.

Fenris, whatever he is, whatever he thinks he might be, is far different from them, in a way that has little to do with looks. Hawke would still like to see him smile. Just the once. If he should vanish forever the next day, she'd still like to see it. Give her enough time, perhaps she might even make him laugh.

"You're going back to see him, aren't you?"

As if it was ever even a question.

"I haven't got much better to do, until we have all the money for the expedition. It's either that, or drinking with Isabela."

"… just drinking?"

It should not surprise Hawke like it still does, how suddenly the world can change, and how fast. Kirkwall seems composed mainly of people who loathe the very sight of her, but Hawke can't stand them either, so it hasn't seemed much of a loss to be alone. Isabela… well, it's hard to imagine a reason not to like her immediately, and the first time she'd smiled there had been no way not to smile back, and if Isabela asks - _when_ she asks - there's not much of a reason Hawke can think to say no.

Again, it would be better to consider it simply a frivolous indulgence , a passing fancy - but Hawke knows herself too well, not built for anything quite that sensible. Or perhaps she has even fewer morals than she thought, and it just took a bigger town than Lothering to prove it. Whatever would be easier, or more sensible, her heart still wants what it wants, and wants _everything_ and damn the consequences. Forever incapable of doing anything by half-measures.

"Do you like her, then?" Hawke asks.

"She's… interesting." Which means that yes, Bethany likes her, but is too proper and too intrigued to admit it without caveats. "A little wild, I suppose. I can't say I don't prefer her to the alternative."

Hawke wonders if her sister is the slightest bit angry, if Bethany thinks this has anything at all to do with her. As if anything in the earth or heavens or the Deep Roads or the Black City itself could ever shift where those loyalties lie.

"I would never let anyone hurt you, Bethy. Ever. You can't help it, being the way you are. Or being a mage, for that matter."

Hawke snickers, as her sister punches the boards beneath her. Stronger than she looks.

"Har har. You're always so _funny_. I'll hex you."

"Promises, promises."

Old banter between them, and comforting for the familiarity, the reminder of better days. Hawke has not managed to hold on to everything. Father is gone. Carver is gone. They've been reduced to refugees living in a hole, but they are still alive and together and the three of them have survived the Blight and it will be all right. A quiet, comfortable life isn't so much for them to ask for, and Hawke will go down to the Deep Roads and drag it back for them with both hands, if that's what it takes.

Silence above her, for long enough that she thinks Bethany must be asleep, when her sister speaks again.

"He's going to break your heart, just like she did, and I'll have to - what? Watch you cry again for two days together?"

"Or he'll break it in some new and exciting way." Hawke replies. "You know how I am. By the time I might think to spare my heart, it's already too late." It won't change how much it hurts, she knows that. Nothing will change what's already started, so trying to argue her way out of it, trying to appeal to logic or reason just isn't worth the effort. Even if it's painful, at least it certainly can't be dull.

"If he hurts you-"

"If he hurts me, then I'll cry for two days together, and bribe you to bake me something with berries in it, and then we'll… we'll just go on. Like we always do."

"I'll kill him." Bethany's voice is low and fierce, not a tone she uses often. "By the Maker, I swear I will. I won't watch you go through that again."

"Please don't say that about the angry elf with a grudge against mages and the penchant for putting his fist through his enemies. I would hate to have to explain it to mother."

Unlikely, of course, that Bethany could ever be roused to actual violence. It had been rather difficult, when Fenris had launched that opening volley at her sister, for Hawke not to laugh out loud. Her sister, the very model of a highborn Amell lady, a danger? A blood mage in the making? Bethany couldn't even be in the same room when Hawke had dressed rabbits or killed chickens - even their mother had more of a stomach for it than she did.

"You know, Bethy, we're so lucky you're the mage."

More old banter, and Hawke can hear the smile in her sister's voice, following along.

"You wouldn't last five minutes."

Hawke laughs. "I wouldn't last three."

Bethany shifts, and shifts again. The beds are monstrously uncomfortable, and most of the time, she's never quite certain whether her sister is keeping herself awake with fretting or simply trying to find a decent position to sleep in.

"You just don't worry enough, sis. Not just about… well, about everything. I know you want to make us feel safe. I understand, but…"

Hawke sighs. "A year ago, I worried about the Templars. I worried about what would happen when you wanted to start a life of your own. I worried about Carver, and how he seemed hell-bent on not listening to anything I had to say, because I wasn't father and I wasn't a man. What I didn't worry about was the Blight. Or the ogre. I didn't worry about the fact that our extended family is composed mainly of one useless, grumpy, lying old goat. So now we're here in the ass end of Kirkwall, and doing everything we can to get to the ass end of the Deep Roads, where no doubt _everything_ will want to murder us. I have to say, I've pretty much given up on worrying. It doesn't ever seem to pan out like I expect."

No answer, and Hawke grimaces, wishing she'd kept a good deal more of that on the inside, even in this confessional moment. Father would have. He would have done a lot of things better than she has managed to. Her sister has enough to deal with, has always had too much to think about, and none of this should be her concern.

"It's going to be all right, Bethy. I promise. I swear it."

Circular conversations every night, these constant reassurances back and forth between them. Talk that goes nowhere because talk always goes nowhere. At least Hawke's talk seems to - she's far, far better with action. At times, it can be a comfort, but there are other times, like the impending day they will have enough coin for the Deep Roads, and she'll have to tell her sister she isn't coming along, that she wishes she were better with words. It's not a suicide mission, but close enough that she's not letting Bethany anywhere near it, and Hawke's not looking forward to that fight when the day comes.

What matters now, though, is making sure that day _does_ come. Getting to Sundermount, dealing with the Dalish - if they don't decide just to shoot her on sight - and this business with Isabela and Fenris and please, please just let her be wrong right now. Let one or the other slip away, or try to put a knife in her back, or do anything that keeps them from realizing how hard she can fall, and how fast, and the stupid, silly creature she really is. So quick to be loyal, no matter how much she ought to know better.

Maker, she is _such_ a mabari. Wagging her tail, ready to serve, to defend even those who have no need of her. At least the rest of it is simple, and will stay simple.

Get the coin. Get the estate. Let anything else fall where it will.

* * *

Author's Notes:

1. I wondered why they'd bother giving humans the option of Dalish-style facial tattoos when being Dalish wasn't even an option the way it was in DA:O. So it sort of became my Hawke's backstory. Will explain more in subsequent chapters.


	2. stack the deck

New ships in the harbor mean new sailors in Lowtown. New sailors in Lowtown mean new bodies at the bar, which means new players at the card table, and new fools to part from their coin. The afternoon goes fairly well for Varric, and he only has to reach for Bianca once or twice, mostly relieving the men of their sovereigns before they can pay for enough drink to even think about causing trouble. A relatively quiet day, all his affairs taking care of themselves with only a tweak or two here and there. He doesn't see Isabela come in, doesn't realize she's been doing business of her own in the back until a man goes flying from the top stair, hitting the tavern floor with a punishing thud. Really, between the layers of scum and filth it seems like it ought to have a bit more bounce to it.

Isabela follows after him, though in a slower, less airborne manner, dusting off her hands as she reaches the main floor.

"It's okay," she says, though most of the patrons have no reason to complain as long as she doesn't spill anyone's drink, and half of them aren't even looking, "he likes it rough."

The pirate will always have a smile for him, so Varric has come to judge her mood mostly by the length of her swagger, and today that predatory sway says she is having as good a day as he is, dropping into the chair across from where he sits.

"Deal me in next hand."

"I doubt there's anyone with enough coin left for a next hand, Rivaini."

"Buy me a bottle to celebrate, then?"

If the bar ever burns to the ground - less an if than a _when_, really - they will be able to rebuild entirely on the basis of Varric's bar tab, probably with a much nicer roof and fancy hats for all the vermin. He gestures the barmaid over as Isabela shuffles the cards, long fingers expertly working the deck through several different patterns, some of them mixing the cards up, others putting them into a particular order. It's rare that Varric cheats at cards, usually he doesn't have to, and Isabela seems to enjoy letting luck carry her through, but it's still a skill worth having. The man she'd felled is finally up and moving again, and though he's making vaguely disgruntled noises it's clear he's too dazed to recognize Isabela, let alone cause further trouble, and when an obliging patron shoves him out the door he doesn't come back.

"So, I hear you helped Hawke with her… housewarming."

Isabela smiles. "You dirty dwarf. You just expect me to just tell you everything?"

"Yes."

The pirate leans forward, eyes sparkling. "Oh, it was _fantastic_. I don't know what they put in the water in Ferelden. Or maybe it's something to do with the weather. It can't possibly be the food."

Buy Isabela a drink, and she'll happily tell the story of how she had her way - several ways - with the Hero of Ferelden. To her credit, she is sure to point out, in detail, all of his most admirably heroic aspects and his exceedingly generous nature.

"Hawke did say they had to make their own fun."

Isabela pours herself a shot, downing it - he can tell a lot about the pirate's mood by the way she knocks back her drinks. A sharp tilt of her head and the brush of her thumb against her mouth afterward means some unlucky bastard is about to hit the floor, while the long, languid tip of the glass against her lips means she's quite well contented, no doubt thinking about her most recent tryst or perhaps planning the next.

"Hawke needed a pick-me-up after that business with Bethany, so I… picked up."

"How selfless."

"I am Andraste incarnate. Render unto me your Chantry boys."

Isabela flips the cards out into some random, arcane pattern across the tabletop. Fortune telling, though she doesn't believe in it, barely paying any attention to the future she's drawn before it's gathered back in her hands and being shuffled away. She'd offered to read his once, though Varric had declined, preferring to be surprised at how being so skilled, handsome and clever would play out in life. Varric wonders if she's tried it on Hawke, and if the cards just burst into flames in protest.

"How is Sunshine doing out there, anyway?"

Varric has a few connections in the Gallows, but as volatile as things are in the Circle - as sweet-natured as Bethany is - he can never have too much information, and is very glad to see Isabela smile.

"She's shining, what else? Hawke says she's settling in better than either of them expected - the little ones love her, though I can say that's hardly a surprise."

Varric thinks it might prove to be a rather big mistake on the Templars end, bringing in a mage who's managed to live outside the Circle for so long and yet be entirely content, normal and happy. It's never made more than a lick of sense to him, the obsession that can border on panic between the Templars and the mages in Kirkwall - mostly coming from those wealthy enough to be insulated from all of life's other dangers. If nothing else, it certainly does a very good job of keeping a lot of people on both sides under heel, fighting amongst each other and all of them terrified - the perfect system for anyone who is on top of it to remain so.

Isabela slides the deck into a wide line with one hand, using the edge of a card to flip them over and back like a wave. "Was that Anders I saw getting carried out of here a few nights ago?"

"I knew he was a Warden, but you're aware he was actually _in_ Amaranthine, right? A part of that legendary four-man defense of the city - not to mention Vigil's Keep?" Varric says. "I _need_ to hear that story, but he can't go more than four sentences without getting moody, so I thought a few drinks would help him relax. I probably shouldn't have given him that last shot of brandy but I thought 'almost there, any second now he's going to start talking about things that didn't involve his cat.'"

Not a wager that had worked out in his favor, but there were always more nights, and more drinks, and Anders could certainly use them, even if it did tend to turn him horrifically maudlin. Give him a lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to place it, and Varric might one day get the mage to lighten up.

"So, now,"the dwarf says, more than a little proud that his life has brought him to this moment. "Dish me some dirt on Hawke. I don't need each and every sordid detail but-"

"She giggles if you tickle the back of her calves, just below the knee, and she does this thing where she bites her lip if you-" Isabela laughs as Varric holds up a hand, and she gestures toward his notebook. "You've got it half-written already, don't you."

Varric smiles. "I have them all written up. I just charge more for the ones that are actually true."

If the dark horse affair between Sebastian and Merrill ever pans out, Varric might be able to commission that solid gold statue of himself he's always wanted.

"You've been holding out on me, dwarf." The pirate says, and makes a half-hearted swipe for what's actually a ledger. Varric generally doesn't do much composing in the tavern itself, too much noise and too many people always wanting to know where they'll be in the story if they find out he's writing one. "You know, I knew the elf that dictated all those tales of his naughty adventures with the Hero of Ferelden. Only about half of them had any chance of being true. Not that the Hero would have minded the rest of them, I'm sure."

Certainly not the one where he'd defeated an entire Tower's worth of desire demons with the power of his… convictions. Varric wasn't as impressed with the existence of that tale as the fact that there had been an equally successful sequel.

"If a quarter of them were true, they wouldn't have had the time to end the Blight. Or the stamina. It doesn't mean they don't sell." Especially the ones concerning the two Wardens as tragic, star-crossed lovers. Brothers in arms who had then become far more, cruelly forced to part when the Archdemon fell and one of them was crowned king, their moment of triumph doomed to separate them forever. The Fereldens and the Free Marches just eat up those noble soldier tales, with all that talk of fealty and honor and tightly molded leather armor.

"Let me see what you've got. Come on, I'm _bored_."

Varric pulls a book from the small stack at his side, and slides it forward. Of course none of these particular tales will ever come out with any recognizable names attached. Hawke's not even herself in this one, but a assassin who'd accidentally fallen in love with her pirate prey - assassins are in this year. Isabela flips toward the end of the last finished chapter, where the two lovers are battling for their lives against secret enemies of the crown. Varric hasn't quite decided which crown yet, not that anyone will be paying attention to that part.

"The Orlesian bard swept through the open window as the Rivaini pirate stepped from the shadows, the darkness clinging to her curvaceous form as if unwilling to part - and really, could you blame it?." Isabela snickers, reading aloud. "As they swept forward like Andraste's own avenging avatars of righteous judgment - ooh, that's good, I like that - I could see them touch briefly as they crossed in front of me, the curve of the bard's hand cupping the pirate's own, the gentlest brush of fingertips as intimate as any-"

Isabela stops reading, a surprised little smile on her face - she must remember that gesture. Varric certainly does. As electric as any magic he'd ever seen, the careless caress and the look that had passed between them before they'd entered the fray: so delighted, strong and fearless and playing off each others attacks as if they were part of the same fierce creature, tearing through a pack of mercenaries with such grace and skill and fury Varric hadn't had a chance to line up his third shot before it was over.

The pirate is still looking at the book, though he doubts she's reading. Her gaze seems far away.

"You're not falling for her, are you, Rivaini?"

"Me?" Isabela makes a chiding sound, snapping the book closed and handing it back. "You know I only have eyes for you, Varric."

He might worry a little bit on her behalf, if he thought that Hawke felt nothing for Isabela, but the dwarf is rather certain that isn't so.

"You just want me to get you in with Bianca. I know that game."

Isabela snaps her fingers. "You know what you need in your next story? An evil twin."

"With a mustache?"

"A sexy evil twin. _My_ sexy evil twin. She could tie Hawke to the mast and then I could swing in and save her. Or tie her up some more. Or both."

"The mast of your glorious new ship, I imagine?"

"Naturally."

"Are we sure you're not the sexy evil twin?"

"Speaking of," Isabela says with a smirk, as Fenris comes through the door. It appears he's putting in some brooding overtime, maybe to lay in some surplus, though Varric can't imagine the production line will shut down anytime soon. He sees them, and crosses the room, as Isabela makes a small, satisfied sound in the back of her throat, her voice just low enough not to carry. "You know, I can't really even see him with his clothes on anymore. Do you think those markings go all the way d-"

"Yes." Varric cuts her off, shaking his head. "What is it about the scowling, short-tempered bad boys anyway?"

"Bad? Him? Hardly." An oddly gentle tone in the pirate's voice. "Whether he knows it or not."

A lot of things Fenris doesn't seem to know. It might be the pirate in Hawke's bed now, but it's the elf who's been carrying her heart around all this time - a gift as yet unacknowledged. All of it happening well before the Deep Roads, and that is only the first time Varric had noticed it. Funny that he hadn't seen it sooner, though Hawke speaks so freely about so much, bold and entirely uninhibited, that it's easy to forget that there's nothing stopping her from keeping quiet, so the secrets she does have mostly hide in plain sight.

* * *

It had been a late night much like any other at the Hanged Man. He and Hawke had been tipping back a quiet round after a bit of 'guard duty' that had mostly been an accident, a group of thieves with more knives than sense who had considered two women and a dwarf as easy prey. One thing to take them down, but Aveline had frightened the youngest of them into revealing their hideout, fifteen men and all their spoils all swiftly dragged away by the guard. It was cause enough for celebration, with Aveline on her way to being named captain, even if the circumstances of that hadn't exactly been the best. The two of them had been at the table for a while, while Aveline was at the bar, not quite interrogating the bartender of some small issue or another, though even with a drink in hand no one believed she was off-duty. If she even knew what the word meant.

The tavern door opened then, and Fenris stepped in, carrying himself with that combination of stiff-shouldered pride and intense wariness he'd obviously intended as indifference, though it came off as anything but. The elf had become a relatively common sight, the Hanged Man often as good for information gathering as pulling pints, and Varric was diplomatic enough not to call attention to their mostly one-sided conversations - all Fenris, believe it or not, once he got started. The elf's taciturn nature, Varric had decided, was a matter of circumstance more than personal preference - Fenris was friendly enough, with certain issues off the table, and hell, he was mostly aware of even those. Alternately keeping to himself and holding the world firmly at arm's length, and yet still coming into the bar to try and work it all out. Starting in on what he no doubt thought was a matter of simply putting himself back together, of finding a way to piece together the fragments of what had been lost. Varric didn't know how to tell him it wouldn't be that easy - that even if he remembered everything tomorrow, what lay ahead was still a future full of unknowns.

Over the years, Varric had dealt with all kinds of people stumbling through places they didn't expect to find themselves in, with everything they'd held onto, all that they knew of themselves and the world around them suddenly rendered meaningless: dwarves newly topside, rogue Templars and fallen nobles, and yes, the occasional runaway slave. Hawke had certainly managed to cobble together a more… eccentric lot than he was used to dealing with all at once, but the basics didn't change. Life was about moving forward, not going back. Maybe the hardest thing anyone ever had to do, which was why so many people couldn't do it, whether it meant dying in a Blight or drinking themselves to oblivion or mouthing meaningless prayers, rather than admit the Maker's mysterious ways no longer made any sense. Varric figured he'd heard as many soul-searching confessions over a pint as any stone in a Chantry hall, and instead of answers or platitudes he'd found it was mostly a matter of time and patience and letting it all just play itself out - hell, some of his better business deals had started out that way.

So he'd been sitting there, not thinking about anything in particular except how wise and introspective he was, only to glance over at Hawke and have most of those smug thoughts summarily slapped right out of his head. He wasn't much of a religious dwarf, not even by their terms, but humility at least had its earthly agents, Varric was sure of that.

He watched Hawke. Hawke watched Fenris. She didn't move, only her eyes quietly following his path across the room to Aveline's side, no doubt some issue to do with his newly acquired mansion, or what was left of it. As a storyteller for the better part of his life - oh, Varric knew that look. Wrote about it a lot more often than he actually saw it, and yet here it was.

A surprise, he had to admit. Of anyone, he would have thought Hawke would take to Anders. A Gray Warden apostate with an apostate's daughter? It seemed like they'd have plenty in common, which might also explain why Varric was still a bachelor.

"You know," he said, "I hear the Imperium's impressive on the surface, but a little coin in the right place can go a long way."

"Mm."

"Life is cheap in Minrathous, and even the rich have enemies. Actually, they tend to have more than their share."

"Mm-hm." Hawke still did not look at him, though he could see the corner of her mouth twitch. Aware of exactly what he was asking, even though she'd never been anywhere near Tevinter, didn't know a thing about the layout of the capital or what might meet her when she got there.

"Andraste's ass, Hawke. You'd really do it, wouldn't you? Just storm the imperial city and and kill that magister of his."

"Danarius."

Well, there was his answer, but was he really so surprised? Hawke never seemed much like the flowers and chocolates type.

At the bar, Aveline turned, gesturing to them. Fenris gave them a glance, with a slight nod of acknowledgment to Hawke. Any move on the elf's part spoke volumes against his usual reserve, but nowhere near the light that flickered in Hawke's eyes, the wry, tender smile he didn't realize he'd turned his back on.

"He doesn't know, does he?"

She took a long, slow drink. Still not looking his way. "It's not easy, Varric, always waiting for the door to be kicked in. When anything you build can get knocked over and ground to dust in an instant, and knowing that there's some bastard out there just waiting to do it. There are better ways to live."

The sort of thing she didn't say in front of Bethany, ever, even if it was nothing like regret.

"Hawke."

His tone made her grin. As if worrying about her was the most ridiculous thing anyone could ever do.

"He's trying. Testing it out. Still deciding what he wants. Not quite sure if being happy is worth the risk."

A casual flirtation, then, at least on his end. Hawke keeping it simple, as if nothing important was at stake. It was the way she fought, ready to make herself the target, to take a hit so no one else had to, so why should he be surprised when this was the same?

"Fenris doesn't know how you feel."

Love was one of those strange words for a storyteller. Varric had seen the shine get knocked off of honor and glory, he'd had to work to rebuild truth and justice and still couldn't always keep them from collapsing under their own weight - but love endured. The common coin of whores and monsters, poets and kings. Everyone knew love, or wanted to be in love, or even destroy the one they used to love, and the word was passed around from clean hands to dirty and back again - yet all it took was a quick polish, and it was as beautiful as the day it was minted. Every new love was the first love, and Hawke's smile didn't change.

"All his life has been about other people's demands, Varric. I'm not… it's not his problem, what I feel or how much, and I'm not going to be one more thing he's afraid to say no to. We do this on his terms, or not at all." After a quiet moment, Hawke glanced over and smirked at his expression. "I'm not pining. It's enough for now, just to let him know someone's got his back. I think he needs that more than anything else I could give him."

Varric certainly felt better knowing she was around, that out of all his friendships and partnerships and obligations - if he called, he was sure Hawke would be there. He hadn't known her that long, but that didn't seem to matter much. It was rare to get that kind of support even from those who were supposed to give it.

"Isabela will be disappointed by your lack of initiative."

A slight chuckle. "She's finding ways to keep occupied, I'm sure."

* * *

Time has rolled on since then, the Deep Roads come and gone, and Varric has watched Hawke keep her distance, asking nothing, while Fenris sets the sort of pace to be challenged only by mildly ambitious glaciers, indifferent snails and the most torturous of high-caste dwarven courtships. It is hardly that the elf lacks for opportunity - Isabela seems quite happy to play matchmaker-with-benefits, and from what Varric's seen Hawke disdain for most rules extends right into her personal life, not about to make any claims or set terms. Fenris could likely have both of them without much in the way of effort, and so far he hasn't made anything resembling a move, which leaves Varric wondering if anyone's bothered fully explaining the concept of 'freedom' to him. Possibly with some helpful illustrations.

"Tell me again, elf, is that brooding or sulking? Or is it moping today? It's such a subtle art."

At least Varric's begun to finally wear the edges off his prickly attitude. Fenris' scowl is barely more than the minimal amount necessary for daily upkeep.

"I hate it when they stare."

The dwarf somehow keeps from rolling his eyes. Tragic circumstances or no, there are times it's hard not to throw things. "You do stand out. Just slightly."

Three is a bit of an awkward number, though he knows plenty of card games for any number of players that will succeed in relieving them of their coin. It's friendly enough tonight, no one putting much down on the table, Isabela not even complaining how unfair it is she can't ante up with 'personal' favors. Fenris thinks he has no easy tells, but his brow furrows in an entirely different way when he's irritated by the cards in his hand. Isabela is much more difficult to read, as she spends most of her time ogling Fenris.

"Any word?" The elf says, quietly. Seheron has once again moved into brutally open conflict after a two-month period of relative quiet. Meaningless business as usual, except for the fair number of magisters being shifted to address the problem, to make a show of force, Danarius among them. Varric wonders whether the elf would be happier or not, should his former master die in some ignoble way on some distant plain, bleeding out anonymously beneath a qunari's sword. Or is it worse, to think that there are days that likely pass where Danarius barely considers him at all, while Fenris cannot afford to think of anything else.

"Nothing yet. Unless he gets himself obligingly decapitated in the meantime, It could be a full year before there's anything in the way of real news. I can't imagine how they measure progress in a place where you can hear the air leaking out the other side."

A slight twist of Fenris' lips, throwing in three coppers and an absolutely abysmal hand. Varric nearly wins it, only to have Isabela steal the victory out from under him at the last moment, though she bets it all and he takes the next round, which will just about cover their drinks.

"The Viscount has been asking to see Hawke quite a bit as of late." Isabela says, halfway through a set of cards Varric knows he will not be able to bluff his way out of. "It sounds like there might be something big on the horizon."

Varric knows all about the benefits of being a private figure with public connections, acting as the proxy for those with politically tricky ideas that are still worth implementing, or a shadow that can gather support where a larger outcry would fail. Hawke seems to be much the same, her time since the Deep Roads mainly spent helping her fellow Fereldens, using coin and charm to improve their lot in Kirkwall or even helping them find their way back home. A thankless task, the refugees still of little value, politically or otherwise - but Hawke works hard and does good and seems to agree with Varric, that most of the time it's far better not to be noticed.

"Did Hawke say anything to you about it?" Isabela asks. Fenris keeps his gaze on his cards.

"We don't… often speak of politics."

Varric fights the urge to sigh at the elf's disgruntled tone. Hawke is an amazingly uncomplicated woman, by any measure. If Fenris can't figure her out he really ought to start picking out his Chantry robes.

The dwarf had worried a little, after seeing that look her eyes, that Hawke might start buckling under to Fenris' unrelentingly rigid worldview just to please him - but in all fairness, he hadn't known her as well as he does now. Varric is rather impressed with how Hawke does it, always the mediator, even going toe-to-toe with the qunari's Arishok without conceding the point, and being far more respectful than the qunari ever bothered with. Always and ever slipping free of whatever box anyone tries to put her in. What Hawke cares about most of all is people, and there's no fixed mark, no sweeping ideology that can help some without hurting others, and so she keeps looking for the better answer, doing the best to help those she can in the meantime.

"I haven't noticed there's much she won't talk about." Isabela says, with that special skill of hers that makes any statement sound smug, vaguely dirty and highly inadvisable.

Fenris frowns, grimly tossing back a shot, feigned indifference once again hiding nothing. "Who knows? I suppose Hawke doesn't have a problem going over it all with you, or with that mage."

The last word practically spat out, and he's definitely not talking about Bethany, though it would be possible to mark the days by Hawke's now frequent visits to the Gallows. Jealous over Anders, then? It would be funny - no, it _is_ funny, ever the more so for how seriously Fenris insists on taking absolutely _everything_, and this time he's aimed so far off the mark his arrow's turned into a bird and flown away.

Varric's seen Hawke worry so much for the both of them, always ready to charm or bully Anders out of his isolation, using some of the same channels the dwarf does does to keep watch on who comes into Kirkwall from Tevinter. When she's not protecting them she's arguing, refusing to let Anders condemn the Templars even with Bethany in the Gallows or digging her heels in and defending the mages from Fenris' endless scorn and Varric had asked her once, how she managed it, to stand in the middle and take hits on both sides. Hawke had given him that quiet, infinitely reckless smile of hers, and held out each hand in a tight fist, as if clutching two ends of an invisible rope, dead center in some great tug-of-war.

"… and then you don't ever let go."

As if it is that easy, as if she is invincible and indestructible and can hold the whole world together by sheer will alone - but Varric knows Hawke isn't quite that crazy, remembers the hint of bitterness in her voice the last time she'd been speaking with Anders and the subject of Fenris had been brought up, Anders harping on his icy temper and his snap judgments and his homicidal tendencies - though even the mage had come close to questioning Hawke's loyalty to her sister once, the look she'd shot him in response so fierce and cold Varric thought even that spirit inside of him had taken a step back.

"I don't even see how there's a point in trying to _reason_ with someone like him, Hawke. Even listening to him is just giving him the impression that you think it's all right." No one is ideologically pure enough for Anders, maybe not even the mage himself. Certainly not Hawke - though she'd been tired as well, or perhaps this was an old argument, or more likely a combination of the two, and she'd sighed in a way that conceded the day if not the argument.

"Fenris has enough to deal with, Anders, without some backwater hick dog lord like me telling him how to live his life."

It had surprised Varric, that sudden view of her insecurity, like flicking up the edge of a rug and seeing what had been swept underneath. Clearly, Fenris has never seen it either. The elf knows only his own past and what he sees as his own failings, and despite everything Hawke has said and done, he still believes some part of her holds it against him, sees him as the lesser. What Fenris is working through, if he can't figure himself out, it's going to eat him alive no matter how things go with anyone in Tevinter. Bad enough for him, but the thought of Hawke having to watch it happen…

"Did you ever consider, elf, that she might be the slightest bit intimidated by you?"

Fenris stares at him, and what he's trying to pass off as a rational thought.

"Come again?"

"You're from Tevinter. Far away. Exotic. You've seen things Hawke hasn't seen, places she hasn't been…"

"In irons." Fenris growls.

Varric sighs. "That's not the important part, elf. Ferelden isn't exactly known for being the center of intellectual civilization - hell, it's practically a punch line. I doubt Hawke has ever been more than thirty miles from Lothering in her entire life, even on the run. Certainly not out of Ferelden. You start throwing out passages from the Qun in front of the Arishok, don't think she's not going to notice."

He certainly had. As did the Arishok. Whether or not it had been the right move or not, well, that remained to be seen. Not someone Varric wanted looming over his shoulder, to be sure, and the fact that the qunari were still here, when so much time had passed...

Fenris scowls, but Varric can tell he's thinking about it. He's not stupid by any means, but it can take a while for him to remember that his view of the world is even a view and not an absolute, let alone that it might be open to interpretation. When he finally speaks, it's slowly, as if the words might turn on him at any moment. "You think she's embarrassed? Afraid to speak with me? That I would find her… ignorant?"

As if he doubts the meaning of the word, the thought seems so unlikely - he admires Hawke, obviously. Maybe that's part of the problem, Fenris so completely unused to getting what he desires, to having a chance at anything good, or satisfying, or beautiful. The elf knows what he wants, and fears it all the same. Not a pretty way to get by.

"I'm saying it's easier for Hawke to know where she's coming from, with someone closer to home. Anders is… familiar territory," _And she doesn't want to ride him like a pony_. Varric thinks, but manages to keep that card to his chest, and by the sparkling in Isabela's eyes she's making an equal effort to contain herself. "It's not that she doesn't want to talk to you - you're important enough that she doesn't want to say the wrong thing."

"Oh. I… suppose that makes sense."

Enough sense that the last thing Fenris is paying attention to is the game, and Varric gets three silvers from him that the elf barely notices. He excuses himself soon after, likely to do a bit of late-night brooding, before tomorrow's early-morning brooding marathon. Isabela watches Fenris go. At least parts of him.

"Do you think you could get lyrium poisoning from excessive licking? Maybe someone ought to find out, for the good of us all."

"… and this is me, playing matchmaker."

"If it's any consolation, you're not doing a very good job." Isabela says, tipping her chair back as Fenris vanishes through the door. "So, you think he got it?"

"Not a chance."

"You think he'll _get_ it?"

At this point, Varric thinks nothing short of a catapult will move the elf in the right direction, but he tries to be optimistic.

"I sure hope so, Rivaini. A romantic tale of flaring passion between a Ferelden refugee and a runaway slave? Elves and humans caught up in an uncontrollable whirlwind of desire, battling against all the forces that would seek to rend them asunder? With his pout? Drop the mage in there for the competition angle, and I'd sell a thousand of them."

"I still think it needs an evil twin."


	3. it isnt even past, pt one

The Chantry didn't talk about the Chasind much, more effort to seek them in the Wilds than it was worth for all but the most devout of missionaries. They were seen as men with little more sense than the beasts they hunted, too primitive to truly appreciate the need for their own salvation. The judgment of scholars and sisters, of course. Men and women who lived in distant towns and had never journeyed south to watch the sun rise over the silent, untamed spaces. To see the way color slipped back into the world and made everything fresh and new, even in the worst of it, when Hawke had been so sick at heart, and never slept, and always met the dawn.

A new day in Ferelden could be a benediction all its own, and to see it was to sow the seed of doubt, that the Maker had given up on all his creations, had turned His back to them. So the Chantry thought the Chasind simple, and the wildfolk didn't think on the Chantry at all, and the world kept turning.

Hawke still wakes up early, even here in Kirkwall where there's no windows and no sunrise and only a handful of hours since she bothered to close her eyes. No light of any kind to be had in the cramped room and since she's in the top bunk, perhaps a whole six inches between her and the ceiling. The nights have been cold and clammy, Spring coming in fits and starts with all the better weather seemingly chased back out to sea. Kirkwall keeps promising better days but always fails to deliver - rather a running theme for the place.

She had been out until the early hours, with the last job for Athenril - what had become the last job, though Hawke couldn't say she was all that surprised. It had never been enough for the elven woman just to use her for what she was good at make a profit and be done with it. The smuggler never stopped tugging at the edges of what Hawke would and would not do, always with the same refrain - "This isn't Ferelden, Hawke" - as if Lothering were a fairy land, and her refusal to lunge for whatever dangled in front of her was proof of how backward she really was. Maybe this was what had been pushing the smuggler from the beginning, mistaking Hawke's restraint for ignorance, believing that as soon as she learned the way things really were she would happily agree to anything. She damn well knew what would happen when Hawke found out about her 'replacement,' his age, his complete lack of skill - there'd been a scowl on the elf's face before either one of them had said a word.

At least taking down Coterie thugs and Athenril half-promising a knife to her throat had taken her mind off other things - until now. Hawke rolls over again, wishing she were less awake, the nervous gnaw in her stomach reminding her that today is the day, that even finishing up her work with the smugglers was nothing more than an excuse to keep from thinking about the Sundermount and who knows _what_ might be waiting up there besides the clan. She hasn't seen any Dalish, not since Ferelden, not for years, and even then…

_What if she's there?_

Oh, Maker, what if.

Hawke's shoulder twinges, the ghost of a wound that had never left a mark - there were times she wished Bethany had been a little worse at healing - and she is thinking too much of Ferelden today, too much of the wide, flat fields, the forests, the places she'd known as easy as breathing, every tree and stone familiar.

A slim hand in her own, and Hawke tracing the lines that marked it on so many days - everyday - life and heart and destiny. The warm press of skin against skin, laughter and sunlight and a leaf-latticed sky. She had known forever, then, when it had truly been forever, before it had all faded to just another word.

A year on, and they are all still as good as strangers here. The way Kirkwall watches her never changes, as if she'd paint herself up and run naked and screaming through the streets the moment they aren't looking, and Hawke can't say she's not tempted. If nothing else, at least she's giving the people in Lowtown a chance to finally look down their noses at _someone_. All those disdainful stares, and that's when they think she's trying to fit in, that it isn't a matter of every childhood lesson - her father's lessons - all as familiar as breathing and as comforting as the Chant is to the devout: Stay invisible. Play the fool. Pride cuts its cost from those most loved, dignity is only for those with the coin to command it.

Look what happens to them anyway. Look what happened to King Cailan. Better to be ignored, to be underestimated and overlooked. Let rich men fight for scraps of meat on the bones and call it glory.

Karolis had been waiting for her at the door when she'd returned - the mabari more nervous now than he'd ever been back home, even when she'd explained where she was going and why he couldn't come along. He sleeps at the side of the bed now, and Hawke can hear his paws scratching at the floors as he twitches, running in his sleep, dreaming for the both of them. Charging through the wilderness, cool air stinging with each breath, making the best of the late-autumn hunt. The unforgiving chill of Ferelden winters, the damp of the thaw, and the short but sweet summer nights that always followed, stretching out in the grass beneath an infinite sky. Kirkwall has too many lights and too many clouds, the stars a sparse and miserly copy of what ought to be there, and there's always thick fog in the mornings and it _always_ smells, even here in the dark, with only the thinnest bands of light creeping through the rough-hewn door.

Hawke reaches up, hooking her fingers in a small hole in the ceiling, a loose piece of what can generously be called masonry giving way, and behind that the amulet, falling into her open palm. Tucked away to keep Gamlen from selling it, hardly the best hiding spot in the world but their dear uncle's still half-convinced Bethany can turn him into a toad, and she's still happy to occasionally mutter nonsense just to see him flinch and keep his distance. Hawke turns the trinket over in her hands, searching again for the power that must be there, whatever's so important that she'd been asked to carry it across the sea. It isn't particularly heavy, or ornate, or impressive. Bethany had studied it cautiously, but could sense nothing odd about it. It seems perfectly ordinary, and that worries her most of all.

The temptation to get rid of it is strong, just to toss it into the sea, the obvious possibility that fulfilling this task is the last thing she wants to do, but the Witch of the Wilds did her a favor. As much as Hawke doesn't want to complete this mystery task, she certainly doesn't want to explain herself should a dragon come to call.

The mabari stirs on the floor, looking up just before the door opens and her sister appears. Over Bethany's shoulder, Hawke can see the rest of the house is quiet, which means Gamlen's accompanied their mother on her errands, or gone off to get a head start on ruining whatever is left of his life. Hawke has tried her best to tolerate him - he had done what he could to help them even though his means were meager at best. If he hadn't gone and lied to Mother about her own parents' last wishes, that they had died hating her for marrying Father - well, Hawke's not going to sic the dog on him, and in her eyes that puts them about even.

Bethany crosses her arms, her expression equal parts affection and dismay. It's not that Hawke's found any reason _not_ to fall into bed fully clothed, though her sister seems to still dock extra points for leaving her boots on.

"I didn't hear you come in."

Hawke smirks. "I did it right, then."

Bethany takes the three steps to the nearby wall, Hawke's coinpurse hanging from the dagger she's stuck there - a habit that drives Gamlen mad - and her sister shakes it gently, the metallic equivalent of a whimper from inside. Hardly the sound of a job well done. "So… I see things went well."

"You never liked her anyway."

"So what was it this time, widows or orphans?"

"A little of column 'A'…" A sigh from Bethany, and Hawke glances over. "Athenril was looking for a way to get rid of me without feeling like she owed me. I never lied to her - she knew better than to set me up with this. So I get to help out some of our fellow citizens, she gets to feel insulted, and everyone is happy. A clean break."

"I should have been with you. How many were there?"

"I'm fine, Bethy."

A second sigh, this one more irritated than the first, and Hawke rolls over to the side of the bed, letting her arm dangle down. Scraped knuckles, a slight cut where the armor didn't quite catch the blow, and she might have avoided both if she hadn't been mostly worried about keeping the boy out of the way of Coterie steel. No damage worth the effort it takes to heal it, though her sister does so without hesitation.

"At least I'm keeping you up on your spellwork."

The glow fades from her hand, and Bethany takes hold of her wrist, lightly.

"What if she comes after us?"

"I'll deal with it." Hawke says, and slides off the bed onto the floor, Karolis rolling to his feet and trotting off to the front room. She'd made a mistake last night, telling him where they were going today - the mabari is already by the door, waiting as patiently as his impatience will allow. Hawke pulls her dagger from the wall, flipping it back into its sheath. "Athenril knows how to cut her losses. She's not stupid enough for revenge."

With any luck, it's actually true. The smuggler's smart enough to remember why she took Hawke on in the first place, and a full year's work has made her more dangerous, not less. Hawke's learned a couple of nice tricks for fighting in cities, how to make the best use of tight alleys and close quarters. If Athenril keeps her distance, that will be the end of it, and she hopes it is. In a way, Hawke still owes her. If it hadn't been for the smuggler's tipoff, she never would have ended up in the Alienage searching for stolen cargo, never would have been ambushed…

Never would remember what it was like to be fifteen again, young and giddy and nervous, full of heroic intentions and mad passions. Tangled up in every feeling she'd hoped to leave behind on their way out of Lothering, one more thing for the darkspawn to take. Until now, she thought she'd succeeded.

Hawke can manage a half-decent blank expression for anyone but her sister, remembering the other_ other_ thing she's been trying not to think about - that Fenris will be accompanying them to the Sundermount, out of interest or the need to stretch his legs or perhaps the lack of anything better to do.

Bethany's gaze sees all, and is entirely without pity. "Tragedy."

"The Black City take you." Hawke says, pushing past her into the larger room that never, ever gets less depressing. Her stomach is still in knots, no chance at breakfast, and Hawke strips off her armor with abandon, Bethy pouring a bit of water from the main cistern into the bucket they use to wash, just enough fire in her hands to warm it to tolerable and this, right here, is why people ought to be a little nicer to mages. Occasionally, Hawke will bother to hang the curtain they use, though with no likelihood of their uncle being back anytime soon, it's easier to simply scrub down in the middle of the room.

"Varric said he had a bargain on some sweet plums, the early season ones. I'd told him they were mother's favorite." Bethany's already very fond of the dwarf, though she still looks over at Hawke as she speaks. "You do think we can trust him, don't you?"

"If he wanted us over a barrel we would have started there." Hawke says. She's given the dwarf a few chances to reveal any hidden intentions, to go after Bethy - having an apostate sister is usually the weak point, though even Athenril knew better than to push it - and so far Varric has been a perfect gentleman. The only lingering worry with him is with what Hawke sees, or more specifically _doesn't_ see.

It's hard to remember a time she didn't watch a conversation as much as listen to it - everyone has tells, more important than words. Even Templars will shed their armor now and then to try and catch the more stubborn of apostates, but they still carrry themselves like they're wearing it, and it's easy to pick them out. With all the strangers in and out of their lives over the years, the vast gray network of those trying to avoid notice, Hawke has learned how to pay very close attention. It's often a matter of subtle degrees, which strangers might bring trouble with them and which have problems they will keep to themselves. The difference between a dangerous blood mage and a terrified apostate with no sense for life outside the Circle isn't always obvious, but Hawke has been watching long enough to have a feel for when things aren't quite right.

Varric… he's friendly, and his offer's simple, and there's nothing in him that says danger but that's mostly because Hawke can't read him at _all_. Completely opaque, giving her not a farthing more than he wants to, and at times Hawke is sure he knows she's trying to puzzle him out, and is amused by it. Dwarves have a tendency to be taciturn, but even with that Varric is on an entirely different level. Will he still be on her side, if they get down underground and Bartrand decides he doesn't like the deal?

It will all prove itself in the Deep Roads, of course. The best place in the world to screw over a 'business partner' without any fear of ever being called on it - but there's nothing to be done, and going in without her sister is the best Hawke can do. The dwarf has asked, surprisingly, to accompany them to the mountain. If nothing else, it ought to give her a bit more opportunity to see what Varric is willing to share.

"So, did the angry, pointy elf have anything more to say about how you ought to disown me?"

Bethany's prim tone is more adorable than the disdain she's trying for, even more so as Hawke feels the touch of magic at her shoulder - a cool tingling, and a slow flush of warmth deep in the muscle, healing some small injury she hadn't even taken note of.

Compared to Varric's inscrutable nature, Fenris can surely be read from the other end of the Free Marches, all sharpness and armored claws that did not retract and every tensed gesture screaming 'do not touch.' He is always ready to react, and Hawke thinks that has less to do with being a bodyguard than reflexes honed from living entirely on someone else's whims. He is being hunted and dares not let that high alert slip - not any more than Hawke can see a Templar and not think about the best and fastest way to get Bethy to safety. Or how she's gone into fights against the Coterie still thinking of how to compensate for Carver should he overstep himself, and her little brother has been dead and gone for over a year.

"Remember when I said that there wasn't anything more to it than the fact that he surprised me?"

"No."

"Well, I was_ thinking_ it."

The entire reason, Hawke had convinced herself, that visiting Fenris was so important. No denying he was worth the time, nothing wrong with a little casual appreciation - but anything more, all the really stupid things had simply been part of a perfect storm. The ambush, the thrill of the fight, everything amplified by the feeling she'd had since meeting Varric, being offered the chance she thought she'd have to beg for, that things were finally turning around. Fenris had simply been swept up in all the excitement. Handsome and fascinating and unique… and that was all. The sort of thing anyone - really, absolutely _anyone_ - would feel.

It was what Hawke had told herself, standing at the threshold of the mansion. That she wasn't rocking nervously in her boots, toe to heel. That she wasn't taking a deep breath and her heart wasn't beating just a little too hard. Assuring herself that at at least it couldn't get worse than this - which only meant she was the most fantastic idiot in the whole of the world and the Fade and wherever it was the souls of nugs went when they died.

* * *

The door had swung open under her hand, and Hawke stepped inside carefully, making as much noise as she could manage. Doubtless that there were few worse ideas in the world than startling the elf, though she was confident she could keep out of his way at least on the short-term, even if Fenris had already proved himself considerably faster than most with a broadsword, not to mention that whole crushing people's hearts business.

A gesture meant for show, intended to intimidate. Grotesque and theatrical though in the end it wasn't any more lethal than what a dagger could do, and spoke far less of Fenris than the former master who'd been so eager to put such a skill on display.

Her father had known a few Templars in his time who'd liked to make sport of fragile mages. Hurting them when no one else was looking, tormenting them by endless, small degrees and pushing, always pushing, if only to watch them break. It wasn't because they were Templars, he'd made that point clear, these sort of men the exact same monsters no matter their profession, the kind who'd muzzle a mabari just for the chance to kick it. Men in Lothering with wives who couldn't quite look anyone in the eye, who'd held themselves at odd, broken angles, and had skittish children that never laughed. Cruelty as a game, as a way of life, and bad enough with farmers or Templars, but just imagine that same inclination in a mage with the power to make the rules as he saw fit, and surround himself with easy prey? Fenris had been designed to invoke awe and fear, and Hawke had no doubt this Magister of his had made a merry ruin of whatever was left of his life when he wasn't on display, out of amusement or boredom or simply because he could.

She knew how it worked, even if it remained far beyond her ability to understand.

The silent ruin of the mansion was still a far sight more impressive than Gamlen's hovel - and she'd glanced up for a moment through the broken skylight, though even here there were few stars to be seen. The signs of the damage they'd done the first night were still quite evident, and it seemed odd, Fenris seemed too… discriminating, to live amidst such wreckage. Though if he expected slavers at the door at any moment, perhaps there was little point in redecorating.

A few steps more, and Hawke had reached the doorway of the study and then there he was. Fenris, with his back turned to her and the light of the fire playing across his skin, pale hair catching bits of gold, burnished and terrible and glorious. What Hawke knew of the Imperium could fit a scrap of parchment at best, but they did seem rather fond of intricately planning their own destruction.

Once, long ago, when her sister had just started learning magic, Bethany had accidentally thumped her with a lightning spell. Hawke hadn't seen it coming, and it didn't really hurt, more like a soft, heavy weight slamming against her chest and a dizzy, tingling sensation as she'd tried to breathe, wondering how she'd ended up flat on her back. Exactly as it was now, as it had been since that first moment in the Alienage. Fenris left her breathless and senseless and not giving a damn about any of it, and the silence quickly filled with the sound of all her arguments quietly collapsing to nothing, and possibly laughing at her on the way down.

"Fenris."

It seemed she'd still managed to startle him, although Hawke thought it was worth any price, watching the warm light of the fire war briefly with the silver-blue flare of power as he'd turned, mercurial gaze flickering from anger to recognition to a brief glimpse of that haunted, near-animal wariness, before finally settling on cautious curiosity.

"Hawke."

He meant it to be only civil at best, but it melted down her spine anyway. Somehow, she found a place to sit where the dim light might hide whatever stupid expression was on her face, though by then Fenris was too busy tossing wine bottles against the walls to pay much attention. Hawke wondered if any of the show was for her sake. Was he making a point, defending his territory? Proving that he didn't care what she thought of him? If it had been meant to scare her off, he was going to have to work much harder than that.

It took a lot to live with a father and a sister as apostates, but it gave back a thousand times the cost. Teaching her how to live in a world of sudden changes and unexpected partnerships, how and when to trust even those she didn't much care for, depending on others for help and helping in turn. All kinds of people were thrown together at random, just trying to survive, and freedom didn't always bring out the best even in those who strived for it above all else. Hawke had grown up excusing paranoia, suspicion and short tempers long before they'd ever hit Kirkwall's shores. Hell, Anders had nearly taken her head off the moment they'd met, and he was a gentle healer of most of the Fereldens in the city. So Fenris had finally made some bitter comment about the wine, and Hawke had gone for the wry reply but whatever she'd said she had no hope of remembering because it had actually made him laugh.

A real laugh, not much of one, but still enough to catch him by surprise. Exactly as wonderful as she'd thought it would be, though it didn't last, Fenris' startled amusement swiftly drawing back into a pensive distance, a more defensible position and Maker, but that _hurt_ to see. The fury knifed through her, raw and hot, for how carefully the elf measured his words. The doubt, the uncertainty was in every inch of him, any move he made bound up by lines only he could see, and it angered him even as he hesitated to cross them. The more pleasant and pointless the topic the less Fenris seemed to have any idea what to do with it.

Hawke wanted to let this Danarius know just how well he had succeeded, that it was quite obvious the time and care and effort that had gone into such breathtaking results - and then she wanted to pound the bastard's face into the back of his skull until her arm gave out. If she knew nothing but Fenris' name and his need for aid, it would have been enough. No one should have to face a fight like his alone - the ridiculous thing her heart did every time she saw him was just a bonus.

No real surprise he didn't want to talk much about his past, his home - there had been men her father had known for years, passing in and out of their lives, and Hawke had never learned more than their names. On the road, what got left behind was either painful or a liability, and it was common courtesy to leave it there. Three years of being hunted spoke highly of his skills, and for all her sister found him intolerable, he was remarkably well-spoken for spending most of those days alone.

_Smarter than you. Definitely smarter than you._ Yes, but _that_ was hardly a challenge. Managing to put her pants on before her boots was worth celebrating most days.

"Is it safe?" Hawke couldn't help but ask, watching the edge of a clawed gauntlet trail one of the curving, silvery marks and trying not to think about her own hand in its place. Fenris' eyes narrowed.

"You mean will I run mad and take your heart for my collection?"

_Oh, how_ that_ ship has sailed._

"I mean for you. Lyrium is dangerous, isn't it?"

"It's been many years. If I was going to burn up, I imagine it would have happened by now."

How terrible, though, that he might never be certain, to have to live with even his own body as an unknown. Funny and sad, the way things always seemed to be, that Fenris and Anders had so much in common and yet they hated the very sight of each other.

He looked up at her, after a moment. "Have you never considered going back to Ferelden?"

The question was not at all one she expected, and Hawke found herself struggling for an answer. Nothing she had not asked herself, ever since they'd arrived and found their hope for safe haven reduced to a leaky ruin.

Surely, it was the memories of home that had kept her going until now - but Hawke knew well that none of those had been new. Lothering had dimmed for her even before Father died, and it had been a long three years after, everywhere seeming to remind her of some better time. Change had been creeping up on them already, hard decisions to be made even before the Blight. Certainly, Kirkwall wasn't what they'd hoped it would be, but thinking of going home, even if her mother hadn't been adamant on staying… Ferelden wasn't home anymore. If Lothering had been completely restored, there would still be no point in pretending things could be as they were.

"I doubt I'll ever return."

"And that's it? You leave it behind so easily?"

Hawke blinked, surprised at the sudden venom in his voice.

"I wouldn't say it was easy… and what was important came with me. Would you have done differently?"

"No. In fact that is exactly what I _have_ done." Fenris sighed, and grimaced. "I… apologize. Your life is your own. It simply… sounds very familiar."

Like a candle flame in a tempest, blazing one moment only to gutter the next, the elf as quick to anger as he was to let it die. Hawke wondered how much of it was real, that edge in Fenris' tone and manner, and how much was the simple joy of knowing he could say whatever he wanted to whomever he wanted without fear of reprisal. If Hawke had been forced to bow and scrape to Kirkwall's nobility for most of her life, she certainly would not have come out of it with a song in her heart. But what exactly had _that_ been about?

Frustration, perhaps. Wishing that wanting to feel differently could make it so, that trying to leave the past behind didn't really mean pretending not to look back. Fenris didn't seem like the type to endure such contradictions, though Hawke had made peace with it years ago, that time marched on, each day passing whether anything in it made sense or not.

"I ought to…" Fenris says, searching for the words - and_ that_, his thoughtfulness, his care - she certainly doesn't mind watching. "About your sister, I did not mean to…"

"Proper manners aren't worth much if you're dead. I get it, and so does Bethy." He was surprised, she could see it, and Hawke grinned. "It's been our whole life. I know how it is. Trust the wrong person too soon, or give someone the benefit of the doubt and it can get you killed, or worse. You do what you have to do to stay alive. Civility can go hang."

"And that is how you… survive?"

He sounded so crestfallen that Hawke had to fight back a laugh.

"It doesn't last forever. Well, unless there's a Blight, then all bets are off."

Fenris studied her for a moment, and she tried not to fidget under his gaze, or spend too long looking back. Almost disapproval, almost suspicion, though if he expected her to be any kind of puzzle he would be disappointed. So fierce, so intense even when he was silent - Maker, but he _did_ burn. A bright star, the kind to set a course by.

"You don't live that way."

An accusation - that by those rules, she didn't know him well enough to be here now. Hawke wondered what he would think, if he knew Bethany had said much the same.

"I'm fast enough it doesn't matter. Spring the trap and I'm already gone."

And the look in his eyes then. Uniquely Fenris, a mix of interest and caution and a dozen other emotions that flicked by, too fast to name. Funny, if this was the sort of quiet hostility she found charming, Hawke should have been eloping with half of Kirkwall by now. Except for how focused he was on every word, those little glimpses that beneath his silence there stood an endless debate, likely three years running - and the other look, the one she'd seen when he stopped laughing. Lost. Uncertain. If it was facing that or his anger, Hawke would gladly pass him every bottle from the cellar.

"Had I known Anso would find me a woman so capable, I might have asked him to look sooner."

The shift in his tone caught her completely off guard, but Hawke's mouth was always happy to be free of her common sense, and knew what to do.

"You sound like you're about to ask for a loan."

"Well, this mansion does require some upkeep."

And then he'd stood, and looked down at her with the closest she'd seen all night to - oh, _hell_.

"Perhaps I'll practice my flattery for your next visit. With any luck, I'll become better at it."

If Fenris got any better at it, he would have to charge by the word.

Hawke had managed to say her goodbyes, to stumble free of the mansion without making an idiot of herself, but the high walls of the city had loomed around her in a way that was suddenly unbearable, and within moments she'd found a decent way up to a far more suitable perch. Strolling across the rooftops of Hightown, to look down on the nobles for a change. Half-wishing for any sign of Carta or Coterie to break up the peaceful evening, to drag her out of her thoughts, still spinning in useless dizzy circles over half a smile and the vague possibility of… who knew? Maker, what was the point? What was the _use_ of wanting anything so much?

She looked up, surprised to find a gap in the clouds, even a few stars shining in the black, the moon a narrow curve with a pale silver glow that reminded her of exactly what it shouldn't have - but if the heavens had any answers, much like the Maker himself, they were not at all interested in sharing.

* * *

"So, nothing's changed." Bethany says, "I could have told you that, and saved you the trip."

"Well, you are the smart one."

It's true, though Father taught all three of them the same. Even if Hawke can't manage the magic there's theory and history and all of it worth knowing, but she's never been much for studying, preferring adventure books to anything of real quality, and neither to an open field on a sunny day. Carver had bested her handily in academics, able to focus when her attention would inevitably wander, though like so many other things it had never been the victory he wanted. Always and forever in fierce competition with some imaginary version of her he could never beat.

Hawke finishes her washing up, while Bethany packs the few things they'll need for the trip to the Sundermount, even oiling a few of the blades she hadn't bothered to polish up before falling into bed. The way it's always been, taking care of each other, Hawke stitching up a seam in Bethany's sleeve while she'd made sure Father's shoes would keep the weather out, as Carver chopped firewood for their mother. Getting ready to leave is something they can all but do in their sleep. Perhaps the most valuable lesson their father had given them, and surely what had saved them in Lothering, when so many had hesitated, and were lost - knowing how to leave it all behind.

"It's a shame we cleaned out the estate already." Hawke says. "Fenris would have enjoyed that."

Quite unlikely that he trusts her, but she has the feeling she will gain and lose ground in that battle for a long time to come. In the end, whatever he might think, Hawke can only be who she is - plainspoken, hiding nothing, and eventually Fenris will come to realize she's really not smart enough for hidden motives. Of course, once he does who's to say he'll like it? Not the lack of betrayal, of course, but there are many men out there who prefer their women to be mysterious, all coy and demanding like Orleasian coquettes.

_Feminine, Hawke. The word is feminine._

And here she is with Lowtown muck still stuck under what passes for her fingernails, until she picks them clean with the tip of the same dagger she can use to skin a wolf or gut a fish. How the boys come running when they get word of those kind of talents, and really, Hawke? _Now_ is the time to play how-to-make-the-pretty-elf-like-me?

If she had been one of those Orlesian girls, she might be able to make it all happen. Know how to take her heart out only at appropriate moments, just another game piece for the board. It is the way the rest of the world works, surely. If she were one of those girls she would _know_ how to proceed, and wouldn't have to worry, but she's not that girl. The only thing she knows is the simple and the stupid and far too much. More than anyone wants, nothing less than _here I am, here is all of me and it is yours if you will have me_.

Hawke had been allowed to see a Chasind ceremony once, what they would have called a wedding in Ferelden, though like everything else in the Wilds it had been a much simpler affair. An exchange of furs and food and weapons rather than vows. So much implicit just by making the choice, that there was little need for any greater ritual. Hardly the truth, as many in Ferelden believed, that they were all coarse and simple barbarians. Only that the Chasind required so little to make their way through the world, be it in possessions or words. Every action, every choice meant more in the wild places than in places like Lothering, not to mention Kirkwall, with its high walls and complex laws and every inch of soil covered over with stone.

Love in the Wilds was solid, it had weight, woven and bound into every moment - the true measure of a partnership. Warmth instead of freezing in the winter, health instead of starving in the lean times. In Kirkwall, love can mean next to nothing, unbound to proof by action and no one even thinks it is wrong.

Or perhaps she's the one who just doesn't understand. As skilled as she is with a blade, Hawke hardly has the lightest touch when it comes to other people, to matters of protection and pride and trespassing further than she ought. If she did, Carver might still be alive. He might not have thought he had to prove himself, to get out from a shadow she didn't realize she'd cast and right into the grip of an ogre.

The easiest thing in the world, to remember the sound of his body hitting the ground once and again, the crunch of bone helping her eyes snap open in the morning, a reminder as unpleasant as it is necessary: make mistakes and watch others pay the price, and Father wouldn't have let it happen.

_Keep above it, pup._ His voice is still there when she needs it, calm and encouraging, never letting her spend too long wallowing in doubt or fear. _Steady on._

The rule of _Vir Bor'Assan_, now more than ever, and she must keep her mind on the moment. Kirkwall is dangerous and Hawke is the only thing between her sister and the Templars and they're worse here than they ever were in Ferelden. If Varric knew enough to seek her out by name then she's not being half as careful as she ought to be. The thought of the Deep Roads doesn't scare her a quarter as much as the thought of her mother and her sister sitting unprotected in Lowtown while she's gone.

"What _did_ he have to say, then? I mean other than accusing you of being untrustworthy, feckless and without any moral fibre."

"Moral fibre is for people without throwing knives."

Bethany raises an eyebrow, and Hawke doesn't bother trying to stare her down.

"Fenris wants our help."

Bethany frowns. "He wants _your_ help."

"He wants my help. Well, he 'wouldn't turn it away.'"

"With what, exactly?" and then her sister's eyes widen and any humor vanishes, because she's the smart one and really, obviously, what else could it be. "No. Absolutely not. You are not fighting a _Magister_ for some elf you barely know."

Hawke shrugs. "It might not happen at all."

"You're lying."

Of course she's lying. If Danarius won't come to the fight Fenris will take it to him and… he won't even have to ask, then. The bag's already packed.

"He's just a mage, Bethy. It doesn't matter where he's from. Just flashy lights and little puppet demons and thinking that being ruthless makes him invincible."

"A blood mage. He's a Tevinter blood mage who could probably hire _half the city_ to help him fight. Who do you think's going to be doing the dying then?"

_The one who isn't trying to breathe around the dagger in his throat._ All the power in the world means nothing, if she gets there first. Hawke meant what she'd said to Fenris, she's fast enough that it usually doesn't matter how stupid she is.

"It's the right thing to do, and you know it."

Bethany turns away, her voice low and edged.

"Why don't you just skip to the end, then? Get some lyrium in your skin, and spend the rest of your life carrying that around as well?"

It hurts. Considerably. Not only the reminder of where they're going and who might be waiting, but that a part of her _is_ already bracing for the end, even before anything's begun. Hawke certainly didn't see it coming the last time and so what chance does she have, that things will be different now? Her jaw is clenched tight enough to ache, and she breathes very carefully, forcing herself to relax. A long time since she'd fought with anyone - it was always Carver before, and even then she'd mostly said her piece and let him jump up and down on it for a while before walking away. Nothing ever gets solved with words.

"I never wanted you to be anything but what you are, Bethy. I'd always thought you'd return the favor."

A moment passes, and slim arms wrap around her shoulders, hugging her tight. Bethany's hands with their long, tapered fingers that are nothing like her own, and Hawke slips a hand over her sister's, marking the contrast of tan skin to pale, rough to smooth. The Amell blood shows true in her sister, all that is elegant and fine, and being a mage doesn't hurt either, no reason to bulk up when there are twelve ways to end a threat before it can cross the distance between them.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I didn't. I'm just… ."

"I know." Of course she knows. Bethany sighs, resting her chin against Hawke's shoulder, and for a moment they lean against each other. A far more common gesture now, since leaving Ferelden. In it is all the strength Hawke needs, since the very first time she had reached out, her father encouraging and her mother proud. Laid a tentative hand on her mother's stomach and felt the tap of a small kick against her hand. Two new lives, little brothers or sisters that would look to her for help, for protection. Her responsibility. She will not fail again.

"What if - on the mountain. What if it's her clan?" Bethany says, a soft, hesitant whisper, as if Hawke hasn't even considered the possibility. "What if she's _there_?"

"I don't know." Hawke says, because what else is there to say? It would mean she survived the Blight, and even now what price is too steep, to know that for sure? "It will be bad, and we'll do what we came to do, and it will keep being bad and then we'll leave."

Really very bad, and Hawke has no doubt Varric will be all too perceptive no matter what happens, with questions she won't want to answer - and that's if the Dalish don't just start talking with arrows first.

"I can…" her sister says, softly, "I could go by myself, if you want. To the mountain."

Hawke smiles, touched that Bethany would even offer. "… and miss my chance to see what sort of help a dragon needs? Besides, Varric said Anders might be coming along. It seems he needs to get out of the city for a little while."

What Hawke really thought was that listening to Fenris and Anders go at each others throats made for good story fodder for the dwarf, especially once they burned through the preliminaries of Who Had Ruined the World For All Time and moved into the grandmaster round of insults and accusations over who had the stupidest hair.

"Oh, that will be… nice."

"Nice?" Hawke smiles wickedly at her sister's slight stumble, and clasps her hands together, batting her eyes as she speaks in a coy, fluttery tone. "Oh, Anders, how you remind me of our father. So smart. So kind."

Bethany always looks lovely when she blushes, rose-tinted and glowing even when she's glaring daggers.

"Shut up."

"He's not too old for you, I don't think. _ And_ he knows the Hero of Ferelden. And probably the king. I'm sure one of them would be to your liking. Maybe you could ask Isabela-"

"Shut. Up." The blush is up to the tips of her ears now. Hawke is fairly certain her sister's interest is little more than excitement over the first mage she's had a real chance to talk to outside the family. Which means that instead of worrying, she can tease without mercy.

"Of course, he is sort of… two people. A bit. I mean, you're the mage, would _you_ count that as a three-"

"Shut up shut up _shut up_!"


	4. it isnt even past, varric

On his best days Bartrand could be as stubborn as a two-headed nug, and Varric had learned long ago that it was easier to just do what he wanted and bring his brother in at the end of the deal than waste time trying to convince him that no, they didn't have the coin and yes, that meant they needed to bring someone else in and that maybe, just maybe that extra help meant he'd have to brush a bit of dog hair off his coat. The wide pool of Ferelden refugees at least meant a half-decent chance of finding someone mildly competent amidst the usual pick of the poor, crazy and desperate. Varric had made a few optimistic inquiries, though the follow-ups were generally less impressive, even when they happened to be sober.

In all fairness, it wasn't an easy list of demands to fill, not for a trip to the Deep Roads. The funding was necessary, of course, but hardly first among his concerns. Varric needed a good fighter, preferably one with real experience against darkspawn, if only to keep from fleeing at the first sight of them. It would be even better to have someone he could actually trust at his back - not exactly Kirkwall's specialty. At the very least, someone with the sense to know that betrayal a mile beneath the surface wouldn't likely get them far. Varric knew he could stop right there and have fun trying to fill the order, but he could hardly complain if he stumbled over someone who wasn't a _complete_ prat, and slightly more entertaining than his brother's usual lineup of scowls and single syllables and questionable hygiene. Maybe someone who'd at least _held_ a book once in their lives.

"I suppose you'll want them to shit diamonds and compose epic poems while they're at it?" Worthy said with a look of amusement Varric had seen enough times since they'd publicly announced the expedition, baffled disbelief mixed with a heavy dose of quiet wagers being placed for how dead he would end up, and how soon, and what pieces might make it back to the surface. At least Varric was well respected enough that no one would say it to his face.

"I'll take the diamonds, but I can handle the poetry myself."

Varric paused, as he saw the other dwarf's eyes narrow - with his wares poised at the edge of Hightown, Worthy was one of those useful people who always seemed to know a little bit about everything. The hesitation was a good sign, not only that he had a lead, but that it was someone valuable. Enough to think twice before sending them to a doom that was, if not inevitable, then at least paying out at five to one.

"You really want someone who isn't going to screw you over down there, no matter what? You want Hawke. It's your luck, too, I hear she's just turned free agent."

"Hawke?" What a name. Either it was destiny or decent self-promotion. "Any idea where I should start looking?"

"Just find the Ferelden with the elf marks," he waved a hand at his face, as if it needed clarification, "and you've got your man. So to speak."

A human with Dalish tattoos? Now _that_ was worth tracking down for the novelty value alone, a good detail to steal for some future story no matter what else came of it. Fair to say Varric's interest had been piqued, and the more he'd kept looking, the better it seemed to get, especially as his already narrow list had contracted to a trickle of those who were mostly too drunk to answer questions, too busy running from debtors or inconveniently dead.

It seemed this Hawke was indeed a refugee of limited means, working for one of the smaller smuggling operations, but she'd managed to keep afloat in a year that had sunk a considerable amount of the competition, figuratively and literally, with wreckage still sticking out above the waterline all over the coast. Skilled with a blade, enough that he was surprised she hadn't struck out on her own, or tried to strike down her employer and take her place, but Hawke seemed as indifferent to getting ahead in Lowtown as she was of practically every other easy vice. As far as Varric could tell, she didn't brag, or get drunk and talk too much, or make rash decisions to screw her colleagues and raise her standing. Hawke's reputation seemed built on quiet competence, and hard work, and keeping her head down whenever possible.

All right, so she was a little dull. He could edit around that. Although once Varric started inquiring after Hawke in particular, the stories grew a bit more interesting. Of how she'd saved this man from drowning, or that cargo from being hauled off by the Carta. How once - no shit - she'd been set up, abandoned to drown on the cliffs, and had just_ climbed_ the east wall of the city instead, a thousand feet straight up with the goods on her back, arriving just in time to show up the men who'd come to claim they'd lost her. How she could slip in and out of anywhere in the city - Hightown, Lowtown or the Gallows - and would happily do it for fun if no one was paying.

So maybe dull wasn't the right word.

"You know she owns a warhound, too. For whatever that's worth," Elegant said, never looking up from where she was mixing the day's wares, adding one more embellishment to a list that no longer needed the help. It was interesting as well, how all the people Varric had done mostly honest business with seemed to think Hawke was mostly trustworthy. Strange, that they'd never crossed paths before. He could only hope she wasn't some sort of penitent, spending her off hours in the Chantry lamenting what she had to do to survive. _That_ could get tedious no matter how well she fought.

"You'll want to watch out for the sister, though. Bit of an allergy to the Gallows, that one."

So probably not much for the Chantry, then, with an apostate for a sister. It also explained the low profile, Hawke unwilling to do anything that might compromise a vulnerable family member. Varric made a note to be on his best behavior, his last dealings with a touchy mage had lost him half the buttons on his coat.

"Interesting. Anything else worth knowing?" He put down a silver - this was mostly a casual conversation, after all - and the woman swept it up without blinking.

"If you try to hire the sister behind her back, Hawke will walk," Elegant snapped her fingers, "just like that. Doesn't matter what you offer, or how much coin is on the table. I hear that's what finally happened with Athenril."

"Self-sacrificing _and_ noble. This is getting less believable by the moment." The barest sketch of an idea in his head, just an outline - two beautiful sisters, on the run from unspeakable evil, fighting for their freedom, standing side-by-side against the world. Well, at least he hoped they were beautiful, there was a better profit margin in it.

Elegant let out a light, mocking little laugh. "I wouldn't go that far. Hawke's got a soft head, and a softer heart. Damn quick, though."

It wasn't the first time he'd heard that, a collection of opinions from allies and enemies both all refining down to at least two certain truths: that Hawke was loyal if nothing else, the Ferelden sort of loyalty that looked like stupidity to those who found it inconvenient, and she was very, very fast.

At the least, Varric had to meet her in person, to see if there was any truth to be had. So he'd been making plans to seek her out, already putting together one of his masterpiece sales pitches if things should prove half as promising - until Bartrand had walked by at the other end of a Hightown street, trailed by a pair of women speaking to him in low, urgent tones - and there was the mabari, a few paces behind. They /were/ beautiful, though as different as he imagined two sisters could be. One of them tall, dark-haired and graceful, the other slightly shorter, with red hair tied up away from her face in a narrow tail - leaving the tattoos she wore on full display.

Varric had never seen all that much difference between business and religion. The subtle forces of markets wove their own kind of destiny, with time, supply and demand readily shaping futures. Giving and taking by some unknown decree that could be studied, sometimes petitioned but never really known. So Varric had a healthy respect for fortune on a good day, and when it saw fit to throw him such a gift, the only thing to do was thank it kindly, and then be damn sure it didn't get away.


End file.
